


One Floo Over the Lovegood’s Nest

by Nattish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 07:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/pseuds/Nattish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is not terribly surprised that there are magical plumbers, chimney sweeps, and pest control men. He is surprised that one of them is Draco Malfoy. And that he’s bloody hot in a jumpsuit.</p><p><b>Featured Book:</b> Gilderoy Lockhart’s <span class="u">Guide to Household Pests</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	One Floo Over the Lovegood’s Nest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smallfrogbrown](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=smallfrogbrown).



> I hope I got this right, smallbrownfrog. Enjoy! And thanks goes to M for pre-reading. ;)

[ ](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/File:Lockhart%27s_Guide.jpg)

It took a pest infestation for Harry to notice the other magical residence on his street. 

He was outside fetching the _Daily Prophet_ , pausing on bent knee to watch a couple of Muggle passersby not notice him, as usual, when he peered over the tops of their heads to find a white commercial van hovering in the air across the way. Its green, blocky logo said, _Magical Maintenance Company: Britain’s Friendliest Home Plumbing, Floo, and Pest Control Service!_

If that wasn’t novel enough, there was a long white tube streaming out of the van’s open boot. At first, Harry thought the tube was a plumbing device, as it dropped straight down the side of the house and into what he suspected was the kitchen window, but on further inspection, the tube had holes in it. Many holes. Certainly not even a magical plumber would filter water through such a device. He squinted, sniffed, and in the end couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The tube was made of Swiss cheese. And it wasn’t filtering _water_ out of the kitchen. It was filtering mice. Hundreds of mice! They were scurrying up the tube like it was an insulated, edible ladder, occasionally poking their heads out of one of the many holes as if to take in a lovely holiday view; they twitched their whiskers as they nibbled, and then popped back into the cheese tube and continued upwards and into the van.

Harry adjusted his glasses. Blinked. And shrugged. Magic was magic. If he stood around gaping every time something surprised him in the wizarding world, then he’d look a right fool most days. 

He was about to go inside for some Sunday lounging and coffee -- perhaps he’d bake a pie and use it as an excuse to meet the neighbors tonight –- when he saw a head emerge from the neighbors’ chimney. The man belonging to the head sneezed and tossed out a chimney brush. He heaved himself up, hopped onto the roof, peeled off a heavy coat, and that was that: Harry resigned himself to looking a right fool. Because now the man was wearing nothing but a sooty pair of overalls and huge black boots; the straps of the overalls crossed over a shirtless, white, bulging pair of shoulders, which widened into biceps with a blunt color barrier –- stark white above the sleeve-line and golden brown below -– all the way down to his very toned, very veiny forearms, and then flaring out again to, what Harry could tell from this distance, were hands large enough to pick up a standard-sized cauldron by the rounded underside alone.

Harry was instantly smitten. 

He watched as the man toweled off his face and revealed nothing but the hollows of his eyes, high cheekbones, and a defined, square bridge of the nose. With only this clean, the rest of his face still masked in black, he looked like some sort of handsome roof bandit. He stuffed the towel into his back pocket, ran his fingers through his hair, revealing a sheen of gold that cascaded back over his forehead as he let go. Then he lifted both hands to the sky, palms up in a great stretch that made every muscle stand on end. 

Harry adjusted his glasses again. 

And burst into his house.

“Kreacher!” he shouted, skidding into the kitchen. “Kreacher, where are you?” He threw open the pantry door. “Canned peaches...pickle...stale crisps...flour! No, no, no! Why is there no _food_?” 

“Master told Kreacher not to stock the pantry this week. Master told Kreacher he’d be working late and he would eat takeaway.”

Harry dropped to his knees. “I need a pie, Kreacher! Or some homemade biscuits! Or-–” He thought about Aunt Petunia and the politician’s family that had moved in next door. “–-a jelly mould?”

Kreacher bowed and said, “Kreacher will go to market and prepare those things for dinner.”

“No! No time!” Harry bolted for the drawing room. He rummaged in his liquor cabinet, pushing aside martini olives, knocking over shot glasses, spilling the Scotch, and finding the only unopened bottle in his collection: Ogden’s Olde Raspberry Liqueur LiteTM. 

No time to grimace!

He fled!

The van was still hovering, but the cheese tube was gone. The man on the roof was also gone. Probably went back down the chimney. Harry took a breath...and knocked on the front door. It swung open instantly.

“Did you forget-–? Oh, hello, Harry. What a surprise.”

It was Luna Lovegood. She was smiling like they’d just bumped into one another at a cafe.

“Surprise? Luna, you were just at my house for drinks a couple weeks ago. Why didn’t you tell me you were moving in across the street?”

She peered over his shoulder and blinked at Number 12. “I thought this street felt familiar.”

“Yes, er, well-–” Harry swayed in place, trying not seem as if he were peering over her shoulder; all he saw were cardboard boxes and old furniture covered in sheets. “I came to welcome the new neighbors. And look, they’re you! Ha! So. Er, saw you were having some work done...”

“Yes, the place was drowning in mice when Rolf and I moved in, but we did so love the-–” She waved her hand frantically. “Nice to see you! Thank you! It’s so nice now that the floor isn’t moving!”

Harry whipped around. Damn it. Damn it! The white van was puttering away. One of those lovely, large arms was sticking out and waving back. Before Harry could crane his neck to get a look at the face inside, Luna was steering him into the house.

“I’m being so rude, Harry, why don’t you come in? What’s this? Oh, how lovely.” She took the liqueur bottle and held it up to her eyeball. “I can just see Ogden himself enjoying this beverage on a summer’s eve. Probably with Merlin. Shall I open it now?”

“Oh, no, just a token. So, was that a friend of yours? The man in the van?”

“I wouldn’t say that. Although, I did stay at his house for a while.”

“Oh,” Harry said, falling a little. “So, you dated, or...?”

“Dated?” Luna asked, placing the liqueur on the mantle in front of a cracked mirror. She stared at him with six round blue eyes. “No. He’s more of a worshipper of the sun God than the moon Goddess, if you follow.”

“I do.” He found himself biting a smile. “So, you know him? I mean, you could get in touch again? I have a problem with...” He searched the drawing room. There were nothing but boxes and broken vases and, “Dust!”

“Dust?”

“Yes, dust. Loads of it. Clogging my floo, you see. I can make calls just fine, but traveling in and out is a hassle. Takes twenty minutes to get to the Burrow. Forty-five to travel overseas!”

“That sounds like a very serious problem. I can have him contact you, if you like. Shall I give him your floo address?” 

“Please.” Harry put his hands in his pockets and examined the soot flowing out of Luna’s fireplace and onto her wooden floor. “Looks like he did a fine job with yours.”

“Yes, I’m very happy.” She gestured him out of the drawing room in her airy way. “Come see the upstairs floo. He pulled a ghoul the size of a cow out of the chimney, and now the poor thing is just floating in the corner of the linen closet trying to keep warm. And I’m just speechless over that trick with the cheese tube....”

***

“I hate the bloody cheese tube!”

“Er-–” said Harry. No one heard him. They were too busy shouting on the other end of his fireplace. He was confused, because it wasn’t like _he’d_ floo-called the Magical Maintenance Company; his fireplace had simply ignited Monday morning and presented him with a long set of legs pacing back and forth in front of a secretary’s desk.

“The cost of cheese in this economy is so extravagant,” the voice went on, its owner out of sight, “that I’m barely breaking even on rodent control! And this book -– this GOD FORSAKEN BOOK -– specifies pasteurized cheese. I’ve got to give the rodents _pasteurized_ cheese? What the shit? Do you know how hard it is to find a wizarding fromageur who will make a pasteurized ninety-foot tube of Swiss fucking cheese?” 

Harry cleared his throat.

“What’s that noise? Zabini, go see who’s on the floo.”

“I _told_ you who’s on the floo. I just called him so you could make an appointment, but you were too busy ranting about cheese to listen.”

Silence. And then, “Well, it’s your job, not mine.”

Blaise Zabini appeared, squatting in front of an apparently tiny fireplace, slender and polished in a suit and tie. “Hi, Potter. Thanks for expressing interest in the Magical Maintenance Company -– _friendliest_ maintenance company in Britain, if you didn’t know.”

“Er, hi.”

“What can I assist you with?” he asked, looking far more interested in straightening out the cuff of his shirt.

Harry knew it was silly, as Zabini’s coloring was too different, but he felt compelled to ask, “You weren’t...in Luna Lovegood’s chimney the other day, were you?”

“Do I look like someone who dirties himself?”

“Oh, Merlin on a biscuit,” someone said in the background.

Zabini turned and spat, “Are you hungry today? Is that it? Go have some cheese, there’s plenty.”

“Make. The. Appointment.”

Zabini turned back, and Harry was met with the whitest smile he’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, then, Potter?”

“My floo.”

“You seem to be using your floo.”

“Yes, yes, calls are fine. But traveling by floo is difficult. There’s some lag.”

He nodded, scrawling in a tiny leather book. “Is it lag like someone’s grabbing you or lag like it’s just slow?”

“It’s just slow.”

“No suspicion of haunting, then?”

“No, I just think it’s clogged with...dirt.” Harry scrubbed a hand over his face. He was sleepy, up far too early for work, but mainly he was trying to hide his obvious embarrassment over the lie. Hopefully this man would be worth the trouble. “So, when can you come?”

“Looks like I can have Constantina pop over as early as this evening. She’ll make quick work of it. What time is-–?”

“Can you send the bloke who worked on Luna Lovegood’s house?” he blurted. 

Zabini made a bothered face. 

“It’s just...he comes highly recommended.”

Zabini glanced over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow, and seemed to get the information he was looking for. He flipped through his leather book. “Is Friday at ten convenient?”

Harry had to work then. 

“It’s perfect,” he said.

*** 

Friday morning, Harry rose at dawn to send an owl to the Ministry.

__

_Flu. —HP_

Which, if you recited the message aloud, was perfectly honest.

He showered, scoured all the best places with soap, spritzed with too much cologne, thanked heaven he had a few hours to evaporate it off, put on his favorite casual outfit (fitted jeans and a Weird Sisters shirt that clung to his chest), and promptly fell asleep on the sofa.

He awoke to sharp rapping on his front door. He jumped up. The rapping started again, hard, unrelenting, and grating. This man was either very impatient or had very prominent knuckles, or both.

“Sorry, I was expecting you through the floo!” Harry exclaimed, opening the front door.

He was met with the unamused face of Draco Malfoy. In denim overalls and a heavy black jacket. On his front step.

“Thought your floo didn’t work,” Malfoy said flatly. 

“Right, it doesn’t.” 

In his stupor, Harry found himself standing aside to accommodate an uninvited entrance. There were no words to describe the surrealness of Malfoy striding in with a tool bag slung over one shoulder and a chimney brush strapped to his back. So, Harry said nothing. He watched Malfoy turn around, look over the prominence of his cheekbones and the ridge of his nose at Harry and make a face that seemed to say, 'Do come in,' which was nutters because this was Harry’s house, and why was Draco Malfoy now the one farther inside than him? He shut the door.

“Anyway, I’ve got the van to drive.” Malfoy made a face, and then, abruptly, he started down the entrance hall.

“Yeah. Erm. The fireplace is over in the–”

“I’ve been here,” he said, disappearing into the drawing room.

Harry scampered after him. “You’ve _been_ here?”

“When I was small. Thought I might inherit the place, actually.” He added this only somewhat bitterly, dropping his bag with a metallic clatter. He cracked his knuckles, said, “Well–-” and then his upper body disappeared into the fireplace.

There were no words. 

Harry frowned at Malfoy’s boots, feeling the opposite of what he _should_ have been feeling when his chimney sweep revealed himself.

For one, he expected someone dashing to come over his threshold, smelling of dirt (but the clean, pleasant kind of dirt) and sweat (like fresh sweat off a strapping Quidditch star) and smiling a gleaming white smile behind a smudge of black, straight off a hard morning of work in the chimneys of London. After an hour of fiddling with the floo (with more flirting than fiddling, really), Harry would offer tea. It would only be polite. Tea wouldn’t be enough, because the man would think of an excuse to blow off the rest of his appointments (“Oh, Mr. Potter, your floo is just _filled_ to the brim with dust – it’s going to take _all night_ for me to clean it out.”), and Harry would offer him dinner. It would only be respectable. And what would dinner be without wine? And candles were _obvious_ because this was a wizarding residence, and even though Harry had wired electricity months ago, the man wouldn’t be the wiser. He wasn’t a Muggle handyman. And the man would ask to use the shower, because he couldn’t dream of sitting in Harry’s kitchen and making a mess of things, and Harry would show him upstairs, and _Here are the towels_ and _Here’s how the faucet works_ and _Let me just run your overalls through the laundry_ and _Good heavens, I didn’t mean to brush against you like that,_ and Harry hadn’t felt the need to plan the rest of the night....

For two, this was Draco Malfoy. And that seemed to negate all of the above.

Harry folded his arms, still looking at the boots. “So, you’re sure you worked on Luna’s house?”

“Mm,” came an echo.

“The one with the ghoul in the floo? And the mice infestation?”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You were the one on the roof?”

“What, were you _spying_ on me?” 

Malfoy pulled himself out of the fireplace, his eyebrows low and suspicious. Harry had half a mind to thank him for his services and tell him not to trip over his cheese tube on the way out, but then Malfoy said, “Bloody hot in there –- protective gear, my arse,” and shucked his coat. 

Harry covered his mouth with his hand, worried his jaw might fall off the hinges. The shoulders. The arms. The tan line. The patch of tawny hair peeking over the denim flap, where the _overs_ connected to the _alls_. 

Yes, this was his chimney sweep.

Draco Malfoy was his chimney sweep.

Was it too early for wine? 

“I don’t see any dust,” Malfoy said, wiping his brow with a kerchief produced from his back pocket. “There’s nothing wrong with your floo.”

“You sure? Did you look quite deep?” 

Malfoy looked up, almost startled. Harry realized his lips were parted. He shut them. But he couldn’t stop gazing at Malfoy now that he’d looked. 

“I suppose I must run the diagnostics,” Malfoy said at last, pulling a tiny book out of his pocket, which he enlarged and furrowed his brow at much harder than he had at Harry.

“Diag-–?”

Harry stopped short, seeing the spine of the book, which read Guide to Household Pests, which, if he remembered correctly, was written by-–

“This fucking imbecile,” Malfoy said, nearly taking a page out as he flipped it. He snapped it shut. “It’s not Kerfluffer Bats. They eat your kindling and excrete clouds of dust that can block your floo. Perhaps Miniature Vienna Dragons. Sometimes they get into your appliances and eat your power source, which is the fire, in this case. And then you can’t floo, or cook, or whatever you were going to do. But, then, you spoke to my office via floo, so that can’t be it....” He folded his arms, making the tan line bulge, staring into the cold grate.

“You, er, own this business then?”

“No. I manage it.”

“Oh. So, who–-?”

Malfoy snapped his fingers. He took the lid off Harry’s jar of floo powder, which sat on the mantle, and grinned to himself. He took a fistful and let it fall over his fingers, back into the jar. “You see how it’s lost its glimmer?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, fascinated with the wide, pale hands.

“It’s lost its potency. You need to keep it in a cooler place or enchant the jar to make it better insulating.”

“Oh.”

 _So, there was actually a problem_ , Harry mused. Truthfully, he hadn’t flooed anywhere in months. His friends sometimes came and went through the fireplace, but he preferred flying.

Malfoy was slinging his coat and his tool bag over his shoulder. “I’ll sell you some out of the van, but it’s a rip off. Double the price of Slug and Jiggers.”

Harry took out his coin pouch, smiling. “Didn’t take you for caring about my welfare.”

“I’m paid the same no matter what you do.”

“Ah, then I’ll save my sickles for Slug and Jiggers.”

“Fine. Two galleons for the labor.” 

Harry gave him three and followed him to the front door, trying to think of some charming way to steer the conversation towards the tea and cakes Kreacher had in reserve, but he realized there wasn’t much of a conversation at all, was there? Just Harry being smitten and Malfoy being professional.

“Hey,” he said, as Malfoy started towards the van parked on the curb. He was one step below Harry, but still a half inch taller, and this fact made Harry weak in the knees and he longed to know if Malfoy was big everywhere. “Er, thanks for that. The floo thing. Funny how we can overlook the stuff that’s right in front of us...right?”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked over him. It was brief and laced with coldness. “It’s my job,” he said, and turned away. At the foot of the steps he stopped, seeming to work something out in his head. When he came back up, he planted one foot on same step as Harry, looking down at him with the coldness having evaporated into something vapor blue and perfectly cordial, and stuck his hand out. “And my pleasure.”

Harry was dumbstruck again. He placed his hand into Malfoy’s, felt him squeeze, warm and firm, and had the overwhelming sensation that his home was in need of a lot more maintenance.

***

“I don’t even know why I like him,” Harry confided to Luna at the Leaky Cauldron. Once Ron and Hermione had gone to the bar to pick up another round, Harry had leaned close and started spilling his guts. “He wasn’t even very nice. He was just... _not horrid_.”

“Perhaps it’s not his personality you like.”

“I admit,” Harry said slowly, “that the not-personality parts...” He closed his eyes and smiled. “ _...help_.”

“It’s perfectly natural to start a courtship on a physical basis, Harry. That is what drew me to Rolf. He’s so...lanky,” she sighed as if that were truly ideal.

Speaking of Rolf, he was gliding into the pub that very moment, spotting Luna with his adoring hazel gaze, and melting into the chair next to her. 

“My moonbeam,” he said, and kissed her hand.

“What about a physical basis?” Ron asked, sticking a pint in front of Harry and waggling his eyebrows.

“You’re not ready to know.” Harry eyed Hermione, who was nursing only a water, and wondered if he should ask her for advice.

Ron wiped foam off his nose. “I don’t see how you could shock me at this point. Go on and date _another_ one of my brothers, then I’d be shocked.”

“I only dated Charlie. What happened with George-–”

“Don’t, mate! Just don’t.”

“I don’t think he wants to _date_ Draco Malfoy,” Luna said, gazing into Rolf’s eyes. “Sounds like he just wants to test the tide.”

“I think the moon is close to the earth tonight,” Rolf added quietly.

Ron and Hermione were leaning forward with wide eyes.

“Luna!” Harry hissed, startling her out of her trance. 

“ _Oh_.” She made an apologetic face. “You meant to imply it was a secret. Now I understand.” She looked at Ron and said, “It’s a secret.”

“Harry, you’re seeing Draco Malfoy?” Hermione asked faintly. “Slytherin, Death Eater, locked-Luna-in-his-dungeon, watched-his-aunt-torture-me-on-his-drawing-room-floor Draco Malfoy?”

“That was quite a long time ago, wasn’t it?” he tried. Hermione made a scandalized face. “I didn’t mean it like that! But _he_ didn’t do those things. He was a kid. And he seems really harmless now, anyway. I was just telling Luna-–” 

“He’s very kind to animals,” Luna said, nodding wisely. “And kindness to weaker beings speaks of a kind soul.”

Hermione seemed to relax. “What about animals?” 

“He runs a pest control business,” Harry said. “A strangely humane one, at that. And does other things, too, like floo work, and odd jobs. Don’t know why, with all the money the Malfoys have. Anyway, I saw him at Luna’s new place the other day and he was really fit and-–”

Ron smacked down his beer, sloshing it on the table. “Right, hold on. Before I put my wand to my head and Obliviate myself, I’m going to ask you one thing. Why are you trying to kill me? And why is your weapon of choice your bone?”

“Oh, Ron! Please, don’t talk about Harry’s-–” Hermione couldn’t finish, returning to her water.

“Christ,” Harry said, trying to appear patient but not doing a very good job. “Since it concerns you so much -– I’m usually not the one using my bone in these situations!”

“I’m going to the loo,” Hermione said, and went to the loo. 

Luna and Rolf were looking back and forth, contented, as if they were observing a tennis match.

“Mate, come on,” Ron said, taking in Harry’s hurt look. He touched his chest solemnly. “It’s not like I care that you’re gay or anything, but the news is fresh, and suddenly you’re with Charlie, and then came the whole George fiasco, and now Malfoy? Really? Draco Malfoy? You could give me a year or so between shocking revelations.”

“I’m not trying to upset you. I’m sorry about your brothers. That was insensitive of me, springing all that on you. But Malfoy was as shocking for me as he is for you.” Harry couldn’t believe _he_ was the one who was apologizing right now, and felt the need to tag on, “Besides, it was weird for me when my two best friends started buggering, but I never said anything about it.”

Ron took a swig of beer and patted Harry on the arm, an apology of sorts. “You really gonna go for it with that arse?”

“He’s really not an arse anymore. At least, he wasn’t when I saw him. I think Luna’s right. I would like to...test the tide. Of course, I don’t even know if he’s seeing anyone. Or if he’s attracted to me.”

“Sure he is. You’re a good-looking bloke.”

Harry rolled his eyes, mildly touched. “You shouldn’t mock me. Unless you’re trying to be the third Weasley brother yourself?”

Ron snickered and said, “You wish,” just as Hermione returned from the restroom with a stern but secretly amused look. 

“Are we quite finished?” she asked.

“Sorry,” the boys said in unison.

“Speaking of being finished, friends,” Rolf said in his soft, slow voice. “We’ve finished all the unpacking from our move. How wonderful for our home and all of its inhabitants.”

Harry supposed by “inhabitants” he meant Luna, the ghoul, and himself, but knowing Rolf, he might also have meant the dust mites, the neighborhood cats, and some invisible creature living under their bed.

Luna’s eyes flashed with excitement. “We’d like to invite you to our housewarming party next month.”

“We’d do it sooner, but, you know, the Solstice....”

Harry didn’t really know what the Solstice had to do with anything, but he nodded, just the same.

***

“Merlin, Potter, you’re really tearing my ancestors’ house apart.”

“Excuse me, tearing it apart?”

“It has to be something _you’re_ doing. This place is kept running by hundreds of years of ancient magic, and this is the third time in two weeks you’ve had me over here fiddling with your plumbing.”

Harry put his chin on his fist and continued to observe. He’d been doing so from the edge of the tub for twenty minutes, his bum having gone quite numb, but it was a small price to pay for the entertainment at hand: Malfoy in worn jeans and a white t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the shoulders, stretched out beneath the sink, his arms extended above him –- flexing with each turn of his wrench -- revealing a tawny trail of hair that disappeared into his pants, and looking far more delectable than a plumber ought to be allowed. Weren’t they supposed to be fat with their arsecracks showing? Not that Harry would cry over seeing Malfoy’s arsecrack, but, anyway, he said, “Perhaps it just needs a talented set of hands every so often.”

“Or-–” Malfoy made a noise of exertion, followed by a noise of triumph. “–-or for someone not to be stuffing socks down the drain.”

He tossed a sock at Harry’s feet with a wet plop.

“Huh...must have been my godson.”

Malfoy sat up, slung his arm over his knee, and smirked. “Then he must have arms like pipe cleaners. Or else he got a hold of your wand.”

“I did _not_ ,” came a small voice from the open door. They saw Teddy crawling down the hallway with a toy dragon in one hand and a wooden Quidditch player in the other. “Roar,” he said.

Malfoy’s smirk softened. “Where’d you come from?”

“Nowhere.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Visiting Harry. With Smokey and Aunt Genevra.”

Malfoy quirked an eyebrow at Harry, who indicated the dragon and the Quidditch player. “Ah, yes. Did you get those for your fifth birthday?”

Teddy narrowed his eyes. “How did you know I had my fifth birthday?”

“You’re my cousin. I know loads about you.”

He clutched the toys to his chest, slowly turned his hair purple, and said, “I don’t believe you.” Then he crawled away, exclaiming, “Noooo, don’t eat me. _Pe-frickitus Total-ee-us_.”

Malfoy stood up and started gathering his tools into his bag.

“Sorry,” Harry said, handing him a silver device that looked like a giant wine cork. “He’s usually much more agreeable.”

“All the Black descendants are stubborn.”

“It’s been my experience.”

They met eyes, and Malfoy gave him a cool smile. He reached over the sink, where his wand was spinning on its own accord, keeping a vortex of water suspended in midair, and plucked it away. The water flowed down the sink freely. “Right, good as new.” 

When Malfoy was nearly to the front door, leaning to one side to keep the heavy bag hooked over his shoulder, he stopped abruptly, looked into the drawing room, and said, “See you.”

Teddy was there, attempting to blend in with the old green sofa. “Did you know my dad was a werewolf?”

“Yes. He was also my professor at Hogwarts. I never would have known how to deal with a Boggart if not for him.”

“Oh. Roar!”

“Would you like to stay for tea?” Harry asked, before Malfoy could slip out the door. He tended to leave briskly. “I’m sure there’s more you could share with Teddy about your family and-–”

“I’ve actually got a date,” he said, making Harry’s face fall. Until he added, “With some garden gnomes.”

“Oh! Well, have fun.”

“See you, Potter. See you, sofa.” Then he was gone.

Teddy reverted to his normal state, walked up to Harry (looking rather like Draco Malfoy now that Harry was paying attention to it), and asked, “Why did you put a sock in the drain?”

***

The air was balmy hot. Malfoy pulled up in overalls, already divested of his protective jacket, hair wetly slicked back, with sweat on his upper lip and a frown on his face.

“No air conditioning in that thing and cooling charms don’t want to stick.” He came into the house without his normal toolbag. “In the back?”

Number 12’s backyard was small. Harry remembered the wide, grassy yard the Dursley’s had in the suburbs, not that he’d been allowed to play there, and felt a tad regretful; he would have liked a place to play Quidditch with Teddy in a couple years. Still, he appreciated the little bench where he sometimes read in the mornings and the small patch of dirt along the fence line, where Kreacher tended a vegetable garden. He and Malfoy tromped down the steps to the garden and turned to face the house. 

Harry pointed. “Right there. That mound against the foundation. Luna thinks they’re Fiddlyfinks. I don’t know what they are, but I saw a great big one come in through the window last night.”

Malfoy squatted, rubbing his chin with the pads of his fingers. Harry had taken note of this thoughtful habit. He examined the mound, waved his wand in a manner Harry gathered let him see beneath the surface of the soil, and said, “Potter, they’re just ants.”

“Really?”

“You saw an ant come in through the window and didn’t know what it was?”

Harry held up a hand to block the sunlight, admitting, “Perhaps the candle cast a lengthening shadow on the little fellow.”

“All right,” Malfoy said, his cheeks dimpling with suppressed amusement. If he suspected Harry of a white lie, he didn’t mention it, simply brushing past him, his hand briefly cupping Harry’s elbow as he moved back up the stairs. “There’s pesticide in the van.”

When Malfoy returned, Harry came to attention fast, realizing he was touching his elbow where it still tingled. Malfoy had that same book in hand, and this time Gilderoy Lockhart’s heroic form, complete with billowing cape, was apparent on the front cover. 

“Apparently, there’s a more socially acceptable method,” he said, which turned out to involve honey and a strategically placed a love spell that meandered right through Harry’s house and out the floo.

“Bugs can use the floo?” Harry asked, watching the tiny things sip honey and do a little jig before jumping into the flames.

“Sure, if they know where they’re going. Which, in this case, is to a pretend lusty queen ant in a bug trap in my office.” Malfoy tossed Lockhart’s book on the sofa, cleared his throat, and pointed his nose down the line of ants leading out the drawing room doors. “This could take a while.” 

“I see.” 

Malfoy’s eyes met his. 

It took Harry a moment to understand. “Oh! Would you like some-–?”

There was a crack. Kreacher appeared, bowing until his hairy ears touched the floor. “The tea is, by coincidence, ready at this exact moment, Master -– with, by coincidence, all of Mr. Malfoy’s favorite treats Kreacher remembers from his childhood.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, both grateful and wanting to give Kreacher the evil eye.

And so, finally, tea was had.

“You’ve really outdone yourself, Kreacher,” Harry said, as the elf placed a third tower of sandwiches between him and Malfoy, not counting the tower of cakes and scones arranged lovingly by color and type of cream-filling. Harry leaned to the side so he could see Malfoy’s face, which looked pleased that the new additions included watercress; he selected one. Harry did, too, because he’d never actually eaten watercress.

“Seems Kreacher remembered correctly?” he said, laughing uncomfortably.

Malfoy inclined his head. “Yes, but if I try one of everything, I’m afraid I’ll need a lie down before my next appointment.”

“Don’t feel obligated. He’s probably just excited he gets to cook for once.”

Malfoy did not respond, though he touched the air with his forefinger, as if to imply he was holding back a comment while he chewed. He reached for the kettle, and Harry hurried to pour for him. “Thanks,” Malfoy said after swallowing. He took his cup. “So...you don’t get much company in the Potter household?”

“Sometimes I have my friends over. And there’s Teddy, of course. Besides that, no. Sugar?”

“Please.”

They put their noses into the tea for a while.

“I saw on a tabloid cover,” Malfoy said slowly, “you and some dragon trainer.”

“Charlie? Yeah, for a bit. But he got an itch to go back to Romania when his job at the London Dragon Sanctuary expired.”

“Ah. And the other tabloid story?” Malfoy’s eyes danced with wry amusement. 

Harry felt himself flushing. He hid it with his teacup. “George Weasley? Yeah, that happened. I may have gotten pissed one night after my split with Charlie and decided any redhead would do. In an alley next to the Three Broomsticks. I’m just glad it wasn’t Ron keeping me company that night –- though, he would have just clocked me in the nose and told me to sleep it off.”

Malfoy was polite enough not to snicker at Harry’s misfortune. 

“What about you? Been seeing anyone since school? Last I heard it was Pansy.”

“No time for that.”

“Oh.” The reflection in Harry’s tea was rather pitiful. “None?”

“Not now that I’m spending all my time keeping your house from falling apart.”

Malfoy seemed like he was trying not to smile. Harry wanted to make subtle intimate gesture –- like Malfoy’s hand on his elbow earlier –- but he couldn’t think of how to do it naturally. What was it about Malfoy that brought the teenager out of him?

“Er, you said you used to come to this house when you were small?”

“Only once. My mum’s grandfather, Pollux Black, got the family together here for a reunion. We stayed for a couple weeks. It was supposed to be the whole summer, but blood politics got in the way. The _proper_ Blacks...” he said, using his fist to indicate the magnitude of a proper Black. “Well, they weren’t talking to the improper Blacks, the ones marrying off to half-bloods and Muggles. It was an ordeal. I just remember hiding in the kitchen while the adults fought and bothering your house-elf to sneak me sweets.” 

Malfoy threw an appreciative glance at Kreacher, who continued sweeping and muttering something about naughty children and cavities.

Harry imagined Malfoy here as a boy, how he would not have been mystified by the floo or the talking portraits of Walburga or Phineas Black or the house-elves, as Harry would have been at that age. He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment. “I’ve always felt guilty...you know, having this place left to me when there are actual Black descendants still alive.”

“Don’t.” Malfoy said this more firmly than Harry expected. “There aren’t any Blacks alive who deserve it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.” Malfoy’s hand twitched towards his forearm. Harry looked, but there was no Dark Mark, only an expanse of tan skin and hair so white it seemed to glow. “Yeah...it’s true.”

Harry picked up the teapot. He poured, sugared, and folded his hands. “I don’t think it’s true.”

Malfoy stared at him. The severe line of his mouth softened, and they did not speak of it again.

***

“I can’t just keep destroying my house little by little. He’s going to catch on, if he hasn’t already.”

Harry squeezed the lime into his gin and tonic, plonked it in the glass, and wondered if he shouldn’t simply release wild garden gnomes on the whole of Grimmauld Place. Every yard, Muggle and non-Muggle, just swarming with gnomes! He’d be giving Malfoy business and he could see him again without it being suspicious. Or, perhaps, he thought, looking across the table at Luna and Rolf, whose foreheads had been touching for the past ten minutes, he could simply ask them to come up with a pest or plumbing or chimney-related problem. He’d certainly pay for their servicing, and then make an excuse to pop over (“Oy! Rolf! Are we still on for that Crumple-Horned Snorkack safari?”).

“I’ve never seen you so nervous about dating,” Ron said. “Just ask the man out for a pint, and get on with things.”

“I can’t. It’s different.”

“Why?”

“It’s Malfoy.”

“He has a point, Ron,” said Hermione, who was drinking wine for once and getting prematurely giggly.

“Point?” Ron asked. “There’s no point. He’s just psyching himself out. What’s Malfoy going to do if he’s not interested? Put on a hood and pretend to be a Dementor? Lock Harry in the Manor cellar? Make _Potter Stinks_ badges?”

Hermione leaned her chin on her glass. “He’s got a point, Harry.”

“Fine. You’re right. I just need to ask him out.” 

“–-before you run out of hosiery,” she guffawed.

“But then there’s the matter of seeing him again. It has to be accidental or else I’ll look desperate.”

Ron snorted into his pint, blowing foam across the table. “What’s wrong with that? You _sound_ pretty desperate.”

“Oy!” Harry exclaimed, adding just to make Ron uncomfortable, “You’d understand if you saw his body.”

“ _Harry’s_ got a point,” Luna chimed in. Rolf frowned at her. She said, “It’s a very conventionally attractive body,” at which point Rolf nodded and smiled, as if that made his girlfriend’s ogling perfectly all right.

Ron shook head. “Is this what my life’s come to? Gossiping about Draco Malfoy’s six-pack?”

“Do you think he has a six-pack?” Harry asked, swirling his lime in thought.

Luna turned serious. “I can’t say, but when he came back to follow up on the ghoul issue, he lifted his arms to feel around in the fireplace, and I caught a lovely defined oblique section.”

“How splendid for him,” Rolf said, beaming.

Ron’s forehead had migrated to the table top. Hermione was leaning on him, red with laughter. Harry loved his friends, but they were no help with this matter, and he decided he’d just wait it out for a couple weeks. A reason to see Malfoy would present itself, probably, and besides he was running out of sick leave at work.

“Poor ghoul,” Luna went on. “I hope she finds a place other than my upstairs floo to sleep. I do so like reading by the fire at night.”

“Can’t Malfoy just exterminate it?” asked Ron, making Hermione shoot him a fiery look. He pushed the wine towards her, and she smiled and fell against his shoulder again.

“Oh, no,” Rolf said, reaching across the table to place his hand on Ron’s. “Ghouls are sentient creatures. I couldn’t have her killed anymore than I could lock her up like a prisoner.”

“Tell that to my mum. She keeps ours locked in the attic.”

When they were leaving the Leaky Cauldron, Hermione threw her arms around Luna’s shoulders. “Is there anything we can bring to your housewarming party?”

“Well, I’ve already got all the moondust and Neville is bringing the singing candles. I don’t know what else we’d need.”

“Are we having a dinner party or a séance?” Ron asked, waving Rolf and Harry away and paying the whole tab. He liked to do that ever since becoming an Auror.

Luna blinked. “Should we have both?”

Hermione burst out with laughter, said she’d bring the wine, and Harry said nothing because at the mention of wine he’d remembered something in his drawing room sitting next his liquor cabinet. 

He flew straight home, warm from the gin despite the chilly night, tossing his broomstick on the floor and rushing in to confirm he wasn’t imagining things. Yes! There was Malfoy’s book, sitting on the floor in front of the liquor cabinet. He’d noticed it on the sofa when he and Teddy were sprawled out playing miniature Quidditch. Harry had pulled it down to use as the stands for the spectators (the spectators were Smokey, another dragon called Buffalo, and a Harry Potter figurine called Harry Potter). He hadn’t thought much about Gilderoy Lockhart’s obnoxious grin at the time. He’d simply flipped the book on its face, ignoring the praise on the back ( _Gilderoy Lockhart’s_ Guide to Household Pests _will have you dancing with laughter –- not over roaches -- in no time flat!_ ) and not realizing it was his ticket to seeking out Malfoy’s company again. Until now, that is.

***

On Monday, Harry took one last sick day.

_Pox! Horrible pox! —HP_

He turned up in the wizarding town of Dreadsmouthe, which looked like a cousin of Hogsmeade, wondering if he shouldn’t pop into the posh pub down the road for a drink first to still his buzzing nerves. Ron spoke up in his head, telling him to get on with it, and Harry thought he had a point. He walked past a signpost that indicated London was 160 kilometers east, Wiltshire was 2,000 paces north, and The Sea was any number of paces in any number of directions, or directly under you, whichever you preferred. Then he knocked on the unassuming door of the Magical Maintenance Company.

Nothing happened.

He waited a full minute before knocking again. There was a scuffle and some ranting, and a bell over the door jingled as it swung open. “It’s not like you don’t have a key, why do you have to make me-–?” Zabini stopped. “Oh.”

“Don’t get visitors much?”

“Not unless they’re selling biscuits. Are you selling biscuits?”

“No.”

“Well, what do you want, then?”

“Er.” There was a swinging storefront sign to Harry’s right. It was largely faded except for the part that said, _Britain’s Friendliest._ Harry coughed and said, “To give Malfoy something.”

“If it’s a cheque I can-–”

“It’s not.”

Zabini sighed and disappeared. He didn’t close the door, so Harry went in. He found Zabini reclining in a chair and setting his polished shoes on a desk. It was a well-scrubbed, revarnished desk, but old and the largest thing in the cramped room. In the front window, there was a display of household potions, cleaning devices that looked like torture devices, the expensive floo powder Malfoy had warned him against, and a variety of bottles marked Gnome-Be-Gone, Ghoul-Be-Gone, Dragon-Be-Gone, and, strangely, Muggle-Be-Gone (which assured the consumer, in big bold letters, JUST A DETERRENT). Near the desk, there was a tiny fireplace of the cast iron persuasion, where Zabini had first called Harry to make his floo appointment, and opposite that stood a closed doorway marked _Managerial Office_. A file cabinet and a small shelf containing mostly pictures of what looked to be Zabini’s mother and sister were the only other notable items. It was all quaint, with a well-used sort of film, and decidedly not what Harry associated with a business run by Draco Malfoy. 

Zabini was looking at him from over steepled fingers. “Malfoy’s on a housecall. You could just leave whatever it is with me.”

“Will he be back soon?”

“He usually comes back for lunch.”

There was a clock on the shelf. It said 11:30.

“I’ll wait.”

Zabini sighed, flicked a hand, and Harry thanked his stars for his Seeker past; he fumblingly caught a wax cup of hot tea before it poured down his front.

“Thanks,” he said irritably, but Zabini was already putting on stylish, thick-rimmed glasses and reading _Wizard’s GQ_.

Harry sipped tea for fifteen minutes. The bell jingled. A girl walked in, wearing big boots and overalls similar to Malfoy’s, except she wore a shirt underneath. She had short blonde hair, grease on her chin, a winning smile, and reminded Harry very much of Tonks.

“Bloody hot out there! Oh,” she said, noticing Harry. “Hi, I’m Tina. Are you being helped?”

Zabini answered first. “Of course he’s being helped. What kind of receptionist do you think I am?”

“The kind who can’t look anyone in the eye when he speaks, apparently.” She winked at Harry, tossing some paperwork on the desk. “Well, I’ve used the last of the Swiss cheese. We’ll have to switch to brie until the new shipment arrives.”

“I’ll make note,” Zabini said, narrowing his eyes at something in the magazine.

“Also, the Finch-Fletchleys had a horklump infestation, so, per Lockhart’s rules, I set a truckload of garden gnomes on them. The horklumps will die out soon, but you’ll be getting a floo-call about gnomes right quick.”

“Fascinating.”

“Prat. Well, I’m off to lunch.” She looked at Harry and his empty cup. “Are you sure I can’t help you out?”

“Thanks, I’ll be fine,” he said, beginning to feel very silly.

He was considering owling Malfoy the book and attaching a note expressing how fascinating it was and _Hey, would you like to discuss it over lunch sometime?_ but then a vehicle rumbled overhead and seemed to settle on the side of the building. Malfoy strode in. He walked past Harry, past Zabini, grabbing Tina’s paperwork en route, and flung open the manager’s door without a word.

“Lunch!” Zabini said, tossing his magazine down and hurrying out the front door.

That left Harry feeling stupider than ever.

He analyzed the situation: he’d been standing in uncomfortable silence with Blaise Zabini, an unfriendly Slytherin, halfway between making an arse out of himself and looking like a pitiful fool, waiting for Draco Malfoy –- another typically unfriendly Slytherin -– to show up, so he could give him a book written by the biggest numbskull in the world on the off chance Malfoy would rejoice and want to go on a date. Yeah, Harry was stupid.

He made the snap decision to follow Zabini out. He eased open the front door. The bell jingled. He’d forgotten the dumb bell.

“Constantina,” Malfoy said, walking out of the office with his nose in a sheaf of parchment, “you wrote that you-–” He made a strange noise in his throat. “Potter.”

“Hi.”

“Erm...did your floo powder go bad again?”

“Ha. No. Er-–” Harry dug in his pocket, found the book, and enlarged it. “Here. You left this at my house. Found it on the sofa.”

Malfoy’s face pinched up, but he was looking at the book, not at Harry. “You came across Britain to give me this?”

“Well. I did Apparate. Plus, it seemed like it was important. You’re always referencing it.”

“I am always referencing it, but that doesn’t make it important.”

“Sorry?”

Malfoy took the book. “Come here. I think you’ll get a laugh.”

Harry followed him to the back office. His eyebrows slowly rose into his hairline, though not for the reason Malfoy probably intended. He couldn’t help noticing first that the room contained a cot with a rickety metal frame and some thin sheets and a wool blanket on top. Malfoy’s jeans and t-shirt from the other day were slung over the footboard, so Harry was sure this was where he slept. Curious. Next to it, there was a makeshift desk, which was more of a small table, on which Malfoy had stacked tons of paperwork covered with tiny precise penmanship. 

The most distracting part of the room, however, were the masses and masses of Gilderoy Lockhart books. They were piled floor to ceiling, completely obscuring one wall, extending out into the room like a neon green fortification, each brick stamped with Lockhart’s cartoonized face. The spines mostly read Guide to Household Pests, which was, to Harry’s embarrassment, the book he’d gone out of his way to bring Malfoy, but there were a couple others, including Gadding with Ghouls, Marauding with Monsters, and one Harry had never heard of, Plucking with Plumbing, which he guessed by the photo of Lockhart fishing a tuna out of a toilet bowl, had something to do with sea life invading wizarding water pipes. He had never heard of such a thing.

Malfoy tossed the book into the corner. “I don’t think this requires much explaining.”

“I thought these things went out of print after Lockhart was proven a sham.”

“They did. These are reprints, complete rewrites by Lockhart himself. Not even a ghostwriter.”

This did not clear up Harry’s confusion. “No offense,” he said carefully, taking a copy of Plucking with Plumbing off the stack, “but why would you use these things as references? If Lockhart himself wrote them, well....”

Explanation wasn’t necessary. He held up the book, having flipped to a random page, which showed Lockhart reeling in a flailing sea monster from a swimming pool. Lockhart had the arcing fishing pole in one hand and in the other he dangled what looked to be an oily anchovy from a can.

“One of my favorites,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. He sank onto the bed, ruffling a hand through his hair. He looked very tired. “To answer your question, I had no choice. When Lockhart’s memory improved and he was released from St. Mungo’s -– don’t know if you know why he was put in to begin with -–”

“I was there when the memory charm backfired,” Harry admitted.

“Of course you were. Anyway, he wanted to redeem himself, to prove he was knowledgeable in all the areas he’d written about. So, he rewrote his line of books. Completely from imagination, without any research, it seems. Needless to say, he didn’t redeem himself. His sales were abysmal.”

“And you use his books out of charity?”

“Quite the opposite. I use them because I’m required to. My company has an exclusivity contract with Lockhart, who needed a carrier to get his sales off the ground. On the other side of the coin, the owner of Magical Maintenance needed startup capital. Lockhart provided. So, there you go. Mutually beneficial for all parties. Except for those of us forced to reference the damn things.”

Harry was reminded that while Malfoy seemed to run the show at the Magical Maintenance Company, he did not seem to have the final say. He wondered, “Who’s the own-–?”

“My father,” Malfoy snapped. He commenced in doing everything snappily: stacking papers, putting away quills and ink, resting his hands on his hips, tapping his foot. When he seemed about to jump out of his skin, he spun around and said, “I’m going to grab a pint. Want to come?”

It didn’t exactly sound like a date, but it was something.

They closed up shop. When Harry made for the posh pub down the road, Malfoy said, “No, this way,” and led him to a pub with a sunken roof that reminded Harry of the Hogshead Inn. They sat at a bar with pipe smoke overhead, and a skinny girl with a French accent served them two of the cheapest pints Harry had ever come by. In fact, a sickle covered them both (Malfoy’s sickle, at his insistence) and there was even a knut to spare. The lager was good, but Harry didn’t ask how it was made or from what.

“The Ministry took my family’s assets after the war,” Malfoy said without prompting. “Claimed it was all evidence, claimed we’d even see some of it back someday, but it never happened. They even took the Manor. Couldn’t believe it -– still can’t -–” 

Malfoy stopped to drink. He drank until his goblet turned upside down, and then he smacked it on the counter with a forceful sigh.

“Dad didn’t fight back. He didn’t want to risk it. I thought he had more in him, but no. He just put his head down and started over. There was no money to send me to university, like I’d planned, so he put me to work instead. I worked out of that bloody van for two years before Dad made the deal with Lockhart. I thought things were looking up, you know? But, apparently, it wasn’t that lucrative a deal. Got us a storefront and a couple employees. And enough cash flow for my parents to flee to New York, leaving me behind to run the business and fund Dad’s lavish retirement.”

Harry was about to take a sip. He stopped and turned. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Wish I were.” Malfoy raised a finger for a refill.

“That’s just...” Harry tried to think of a way to say this without calling Malfoy a spoiled brat. “It doesn’t sound like the relationship I thought you had with your father.”

“Perhaps penance for not vouching for him during the trials. He wanted me to say he was under Imperius when he served You-Know-Who. He wasn’t.” Malfoy nodded thanks to the French girl, slouching over the bar and pulling his new pint close to his chest.

“Did he ever serve time?”

“Briefly. About a year. Mum and I were still at the Manor, trying to recover from the whole thing, when he just walked through the door one afternoon. They took all our things the next day. Part of me thinks he made a backdoor deal at mine and Mum’s expense.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t sound trite.

“It’s not that bad,” Malfoy said blandly. “Although, I was raised to think I’d have a trust to live on -– you know, get to do whatever I wanted with my time, and be secure doing it. That’s the worst part, that I was blindsided. But the work? It’s simple enough.”

“You’re so bright, though. In Potions and Defense Magic, I’ve seen you. You shouldn’t be checking cupboards for Boggarts. Why don’t you quit and apply at the Ministry? I think there are positions open in -–”

“I’ve tried. They don’t want ex-Death Eaters.”

“You’ve tried more than one Department?”

“Every department I’m qualified for. Even the clerk positions.” Malfoy took another long swig, throat working, knuckles white around the handle. He stared into the residual foam, and looked up. “Don’t worry about it, Potter. I’m used to this life, got a routine going. It’s fine.” He jabbed Harry lightly with his elbow. 

Harry hadn’t realized he was glowering. He relaxed his face, and stared at Malfoy, all of him, from his wheat-blond hair, to his clear eyes, to his leathery tan forearms, to the smile and frown lines framing his mouth; he felt for the first time he was seeing Malfoy for something other than his physical attractiveness or for the novelty of him _not_ being a horrid, foul-mouthed school boy. Malfoy was humble. Strangely so.

“Well,” he tried to say lightly, “you don’t have to use Lockhart’s book at my house anymore. I won’t tell anyone. And I trust you.” 

Malfoy smiled without looking at him. “Planning on having me over soon? Have the socks multiplied?”

“No! You know what I mean. In the future.”

“I see, in the future.” The smile didn’t fade as he lifted the goblet to his mouth. They sat in comfortable silence, until Malfoy asked, “You're an Auror, then? Sorry, what am I saying? You’re probably next in line for Minister for Magic by now.”

“No,” Harry laughed. “Far from it. Wasn’t interested in law enforcement after the war. Just too many close scrapes, you know? And I’m certainly not interested in politicking.”

“What do you do, then?”

This was when Harry felt awkward. “I work for the Department of Magical Creatures.”

Malfoy leaned onto his hand, shaking his head as he snorted. “Then this must be hilarious for you.”

“Not at all! I don’t know the first thing about household pests. Or many creatures at all, unless they were a part of Hagrid’s curriculum....”

“What is it you do, then?”

“I’m a receptionist for Hermione.”

Malfoy’s face was about as flabbergasted as most people’s faces hearing that. “Really.”

“Yes, really.” Otherwise, he’d probably have been sacked by now, the number of days he’d taken off just to hang around the house and flirt with the plumber.

“Well. You can give Zabini some pointers.”

“He needs a swift kick in the arse, not pointers.”

“Too true. I only keep him on because I feel like he needs me. He and I were in similar positions after the war. I think he planned on going into banking after school, but even the goblins won’t have him. But you -–” There was something utterly probing about the look Malfoy was giving him now. “You could do whatever you wanted, Potter. I’m serious, you could be Minister for Magic.”

Harry shrugged. “No interest. I inherited the Black house, so I don’t need much money. I just wanted to do something quiet and routine. Hermione helped me get the position after she started on her house-elf revolution.”

“Oh, yeah. We also lost our family elves to that. Do thank her for me.” 

Harry didn’t feel too bad about that, so he said nothing. 

“And how do you still have your elf? The hairy one who snuck me sweets all those years ago?”

“Kreacher? He didn’t want to leave. Said he was dedicated to the House of Black until the end of his days -– and something about Harry Potter, Defender of the Elves. They were his words,” Harry added quickly, seeing Malfoy’s amusement. “I didn’t have the heart to stick any clothes on him, even when Hermione insisted. He just kept smacking himself with a skillet, so I let it be. He knows he can put on any of my socks whenever he likes, though.”

“If there are any left by then,” Malfoy muttered, at which point Harry said, “Oy!” and found himself playfully, quite naturally, smacking Malfoy on the shoulder. The skin was soft and the muscle was hard, and he left his hand there probably a moment too long. Malfoy said nothing, but shot him a wink, and finished his pint.

“Why don’t you sell Lockhart’s books in your storefront?” Harry asked, as he threw down the last sickle. They ducked under smoke, around workmen looking for a lunch pint, and pushed out of the pub and into the bright, muggy day. “You’d probably make a little extra, even though they’re complete shit.”

“I’m supposed to. I stick them in the front when Lockhart’s handlers come around, but as for most days...well, I do still have some pride.”

They stopped under the swinging shop sign. Harry put his hands in his pockets, avoiding Malfoy’s cool gaze, not knowing what to do next. Normally, he might just go for it –- peck Malfoy on the cheek, since it was the middle of the afternoon on a busy street, or simply invite him to dinner after work –- but, like he’d told Ron the other day, this was Malfoy. Somehow, that made an inexplicable amount of difference.

Malfoy was making no move to enter the shop. He peered through the window at Zabini, who was shouting madly at the floo and turning in a circle seemingly looking for his glasses, which he’d planted on top of his head.

“Don’t suppose I could interest you in a receptionist’s position at Britain’s friendliest home maintenance company?” Malfoy joked.

“Ha,” Harry said, and felt his voice quaver. He put his hand to his throat, clearing it. “Couldn’t do that to my mate, Zabini.”

“No? I suppose not. Well...” He probed Harry’s face again. For what, Harry couldn’t tell. And then he reached out. He touched Harry’s wrist, drew it out of his pocket, and Harry’s heart stilled as Malfoy’s fingers ran down to grasp his palm, and he said, “Look, I’m tired of beating around the bush. Perhaps you’d like to--”

The bell jingled. Malfoy dropped his hand as Zabini appeared in the doorway. 

“Draco! Tina’s brie backfired! It melted in this fucking heat, and now magical mice are cheese-skating through the streets of Muggle London!”

“Brie? That wasn’t at all predictable, was it?” Malfoy drawled. He turned back to Harry, making a regretful face. “See you soon?”

“Absolutely.”

Harry didn’t stop smiling until he got home, which, as it happens, was only a few moments since he’d Apparated.

***

Soon came quicker than expected.

That weekend, just as Harry had fired up the floo to talk to Ron about the upcoming Quidditch Cup -– the Chudley Cannons had made it, and Ron was pleading with Harry not to wake him up if this was a dream -– a swarm of bats came barreling down the chimney and out of Ron’s face. Harry jumped aside. He whipped around and watched the bats disperse into all corners of his house.

“What the bloody Hell was that, Harry?”

“Bats! What the Hell! Fuck, I can hear Kreacher pitching a fit. I’ll call you back.”

Harry skidded into the kitchen, and found Kreacher howling and waving the bristled end of a broomstick in the air. At least thirty bats were in the kitchen, several swarming around Kreacher’s ears, several more eating the fruit and leaving evidence behind.

“My mistress’s china! They’ve broken it! Master, Kreacher will punish himself most mercilessly for failing to protect the Black family belongings!”

“Don’t be stupid!” Harry ducked as a huge bat tried to perch on his head. “Get off me! Kreacher, go call the Magical Maintenance Company in Dreadsmouthe! Ask for Malfoy!”

“Yes, Master!”

In the next ten minutes, Harry only managed to stun one bat. They were just too quick. He supposed he could cast an all-enveloping shock spell, but he didn’t know exactly how that would affect the bats and he didn’t want a heap of dead rodents in every room of his house. It seemed the bats got tired of him deliberating, and started to swarm his head three at a time. He stumbled out of the kitchen and down the hallway to find Kreacher swinging an ancient vase trying to keep his mistress’s portrait safe. 

“It’s—no—use—Master—Kreacher—has—failed—you!”

There was a great whir like Aunt Petunia’s vacuum. The bats began to strain, flapping in place, as if they were fighting against a force trying to suck them into the drawing room. All at once they whooshed that direction. A bat smacked Harry in the back of the head, knocking off his glasses. Another pummeled Kreacher in the face. The whirring noise got louder than ever, and then Malfoy walked around the corner carrying some kind of machine at his hip. The machine was metallic and barrel-shaped, reminding Harry of the comically fat bazookas in Dudley’s video games, and big enough that Malfoy had to use both arms to hold it. It had an open mouth about the diameter of a dinner plate, and that was where the bats were being sucked, one after the other, and every so often the machine would close the mouth as if to take a moment to swallow. Harry could have sworn he heard it belch once.

“You’re the third house with bats today!” Malfoy called over the noise. He walked past Harry, sucking bats as he went.

“What going on?” Harry shouted back.

“We think a bunch got sent into London illegally from Transylvania this morning! The bats broke free of their crates and are drawn toward places with high magical output!”

“Great, I’ll have a busy day at work on Monday! Did they get to Luna’s house?”

“Probably not! Her ghoul inserted itself back into the chimney, so I imagine its big arse is blocking the path!” 

Malfoy kicked open the kitchen door. Kreacher had already Apparated inside, and was gathering all the bits of his mistress’s china and hiding them in his cupboard. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry called to Malfoy. “I know I could have just stunned them all, but I was having trouble-–”

“They’re vampire bats! They would have returned for your blood after they woke up!” 

Harry looked at the bat laying stunned on the floor and made note to bury it in a vat of garlic later. Malfoy vacuumed from the ground floor to the attic, and when the last bat was inhaled he flipped off his machine with a great sigh. The silence felt heavy.

“Are they all in there?” Harry asked with trepidation. Hermione would have a hippogriff if she knew a hundred-odd vampire bats had met their doom on his premises.

“They’re sent to a cage in my shop.”

“Good. Thank you. How much do I-–?”

“Nothing. Free of charge. You’ve given me enough business this month, it’s the least I can do.” He set the nose of the machine of the floor, and leaned against it.

“Maybe more business than I really needed you for,” Harry said, smiling sheepishly.

“I figured.”

“Oh?”

“You said it yourself. I’m very bright.”

 _And cocky_ , Harry thought, looking at Malfoy’s grin, which was so wide and white it could rival Lockhart’s. Harry didn’t much care. He stepped closer, and said, “Fairly bright. And fairly handsome.”

“Go on,” Malfoy said, looking even cockier. His hair was falling over his forehead and his smile was so close Harry felt the heat of his breath. 

Harry closed his eyes. He felt Malfoy’s lips graze his, soft but firm. 

There was a shout from downstairs.

“ _Harry? You all right?_ ”

“It’s Ron,” he sighed, stepping away. “Just a moment?”

Malfoy produced a can of Guano-Be-Gone from his back pocket. “I’ll just start laying this down.”

“Only you could be so charming talking about bat shit.”

Malfoy winked, flipped the can in the air, and caught it with flair. Harry imagined his face was on fire by the time he met Ron at the foot of the stairs.

“What is it?” he asked a little too aggressively.

“What do you mean? One second, you’re talking to me about the Holyhead Harpies and their crappy offensive lineup, and the next you’re shrieking about bats. Everything all right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. As an afterthought, he checked it for guano. “Malfoy, he cleared it up. The bats. I’m good.”

“Malfoy?” Ron peered up the stairs. “Is he here, then?”

“Well, yeah, he’s up in the attic, but we-–”

“Brilliant! Invite me up. I’ve got to see him in that getup. What’d you say he wears, like mechanic’s coveralls or something? Hilarious!”

“It’s not that hilarious,” Harry said quietly, blocking Ron’s path.

“Hilarious or not, you’ve got to admit it serves the ponce right, acting all high and mighty all those years only to end up like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like...” Ron gestured as if he were trying to convey something offensive but not wanting to say the words. “Well, the opposite of high and mighty.”

Harry folded his arms. He didn’t want to hurt Ron’s feelings. “Look, it was shitty of Malfoy to laugh at you when we were kids, Ron. But it doesn’t make it okay for you to do to him now. Yeah, he’s a handyman, but he does his job well and pretty pridefully, too.”

“And what was your standard for Malfoy again?” Ron jested. “Not quite horrid? Guess he meets that, so he’s pretty much a saint now.”

“Ron!”

“Oh, come on, Harry!” Harry kept his arms folded, face tight. Ron’s grin melted away. “Fine. I’m sorry. You’re right.”

“Thank you,” he said, leading his friend to the floo. “Anyway, you’ll see him at Luna’s party if I have my way. You two can have at each other’s throats then.”

“Oh? You’re already an item, are you?”

“Not even close.”

“Well, what exactly does that-–?”

“Look, new floo powder! Ron’s flat!”

Ron squawked as Harry grabbed him and pushed him into the flames.

Harry took the stairs two at a time. He was startled on the first landing, not expecting to find Malfoy so close to the ground floor. He reached out, but Malfoy brushed past him.

“I left the Guano-Be-Gone upstairs, Potter. Use it liberally.”

“Oh, er-–” He had to run to keep up with Malfoy’s long legs. “Do you have other appointments?”

“What? No. It’s Saturday.”

“Then I don’t understand.”

“I just don’t think I’ll be making house calls here, anymore.”

Harry shook his head, confused as they stopped in front of the fireplace. “Then, do you plan on making other kinds of visits?”

“I doubt it.” He reached for the floo powder.

“Hold on!” He stopped Malfoy’s hand on the jar lid. “You can’t just _almost_ kiss me and then run out without an explanation. What’s with you?”

“What’s with _me_? I heard what you and your mate were saying.”

“What?”

“Yeah, and I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. It’s obvious you’ve been taking the piss out of me all this time. I was just too-–” He glanced away. “Well, too blind to see it! Must be a riot for you, watching Draco Malfoy on his hands and knees up to his elbows in your piss water.”

Harry finally understood. And he was going to _kill_ Ron. “You’ve got it wrong. Hold on, and listen-–”

“Probably had someone plant these bats here, so Weasley could come and have a laugh. I get it.”

“Malfoy, you _just_ said that bats were all over the city!”

He wasn’t listening. His eyes were cold and bitter. “Spare me, Potter. I’m not ashamed of what I do. It’s not ideal, but it’s all I have, and once I save enough to open my own business I’ll be rid of arseholes like you and Weasley and-–” he reached into his pocket, and produced a somehow full-sized copy of Guide to Household Pests. “–-and fucking Gilderoy Lockhart!”

Before Harry could come up with a response, Malfoy had grabbed half the floo powder, flung it into the fire, and charged out before even shouting a destination.

***

The following Friday, the evening of Luna’s housewarming party, Harry considered bringing a jelly mould just to make his disdain towards the idea of having fun very clear -– especially to Ron. But, given that Ron’s mouth and Malfoy’s temper were not the fault of the majority of the party-goers, he instead arrived towing a bottle of Ogdenov’s vodka, some lemon fizzy drink for the horrid liqueur he’d given Luna, a half-empty bottle of off-brand firewhiskey that Kreacher had left laying around, and, so he didn’t look like a complete lush, a store-bought sponge cake. But, really, Harry was a lush, and he intended to get sloshed tonight.

He greeted Luna with a forced but polite smile, and she practically floated ahead of him to the drawing room, gesturing here and there about new fixtures, bobs, beads, and other things Harry would never have known were different from his last visit if she hadn’t said anything.

“Thank Merlin,” Ron said upon their entrance, plucking the Ogdenov’s out of Harry’s hand, “the wine is already gone.” He shot Hermione a teasing look.

“It’s not my fault,” she started, holding her hand over her mouth as she chewed some sort of hibiscus treat of Luna’s.

“Harry, do you know anyone who brings _one_ bottle of wine to a party?”

“Everyone is supposed to bring _one_ bottle of wine!” Hermione insisted.

“Yeah, but you said you’d bring _the wine_ , ‘Mione.” The affection was clear in Ron’s voice as he wandered away.

“I said I’d bring _wine_ , not _the_ wine. Honestly!” She plucked the firewhiskey out of the crook of Harry’s arm and disappeared into the kitchen, and Harry was left wondering if she was the one who’d finished off The Wine.

Luna was still there, smiling in the direction Ron and Hermione had been standing. She graciously accepted the sponge cake and situated it on a long table covered in what Harry supposed was moondust, which sparkled under an array of floating candles that were, indeed, singing some chipper tune that Harry imagined would fit in just as well at a young wizard’s birthday party.

“Thank you for the cake, Harry. You’ll have to tell me your recipe.”

Harry eyed the cellophane surrounding the cake. “One part money, one part bringing it home.”

“It sounds like a lot of recipes I know. Can’t wait to cut into it. Do have a drink from the punch table.” Luna gestured to another table, where the Ogden’s Olde Raspberry Liqueur LiteTM sat by itself. With Ron off with the vodka and Hermione off with the firewhiskey and Harry not wanting to examine that situation in the least, he mixed the liqueur with the fizzy drink, grimaced, and stood next to Neville for five minutes trading nods and tidbits about the weather.

Thank God for Ginny. She burst in a moment later with Seamus and Dean, cradling in each arm what looked to be two newborn bottles of bulk-sized champagne wrapped delicately in cooling blankets, and exclaimed, “Holy Merlin, you have a house, Luna!” A herd of Ravenclaws piled in with their own imbibements, made a big vat of magic punch, whatever that was, and the weather-talk faded fast. The more Harry drank, the more he was able to take notice of Luna’s house. He supposed it was spiffed up. The sheets and boxes were gone. And there was a purple couch without dust, though most people were standing, chatting beneath the candles, poking Luna’s exotic snacks, and wondering why the place smelled vaguely of Swiss cheese.

“I’d say Gruyere,” Percy Weasley commented, making Ron roll his eyes and Ginny twist her imaginary goatee behind his back.

Harry wandered through the crowd, clutching his magic punch, trying to find an interesting conversation to settle into. 

“I’m dearly sorry I couldn’t invite you through the floo,” Rolf was saying to a cluster of Ravenclaws, who were dressed in silk robes and top hats. “It’s unfortunately occupied at the moment.”

Pest talk reminded Harry of Malfoy. He moved on to Luna’s group.

“...and before I knew it, an entire family of Hornflaps was crowding around me, grateful I’d saved their homeland. And that’s the story of why I’ll never mow my lawn again.”

Harry took a moment to lament his property value, and walked over to Hermione.

“Oh, it’s the most fascinating book I’ve ever-–”

On to Ginny.

“...but I crushed Maria in the scrimmage! So why didn’t the Harpies let me start in the match against -– HARRY, RON JUST TOLD ME YOU BET AGAINST MY TEAM IN THE WORLD CUP!”

Harry held up his empty drink and scurried to the punch table. He supposed his night would be best spent with Neville, who was already talking to Harry about the weather again, but now with lazy eyes and a wide, closed-mouthed smile on his face.

Against his better judgment, Harry was about to sample something off a tray labeled _recycled remolded bean paste_ when he heard Luna exclaiming in the entrance hall.

“I’m truly, truly sorry! I forgot to reschedule with you. Why don’t you join the party and you can get to the appointment another day?”

“No, I won’t intrude. And it’s just a quick check, may as well get it over with.”

Harry’s stomach clenched. It may have been the recycled bean paste cube he’d just mindlessly eaten. But surely that voice had been Malfoy’s. It was confirmed a moment later when he came around the corner wearing that jeans-and-rolled-up-sleeves getup that made Harry probably visibly swoon. Before he could react –- in truth, he was busy trying to keep the bean concoction from revisiting –- Ron had straightened up and half-shouted across the room, “Oy, Malfoy! Harry told me what happened and if you’re gonna blame anyone it should be me!”

Malfoy looked straight through Ron, and disappeared up the stairs.

“Blimey.” Ron gave Harry a shrug that said, 'I tried,' and went to refill his drink.

Harry excused himself from Neville, pushed through the quizzical Ravenclaws, avoided Ginny’s death stare, skirted Hermione and Luna who were giving him two thumbs-up, and nodded at his old Gryffindor mates, who looked curious but mostly drunk, to chase Malfoy up the stairs. It wasn’t hard to find him. All the doors were closed except one at the end of the corridor. He found Malfoy in the master bedroom rummaging through the wardrobe. Malfoy didn’t seem to find what he was looking for, so he got onto his knees, feeling in the corners and turning shoes upside down.

“Does Luna have you looking for Nargles?” 

Malfoy’s back went straight as a rod. “Looking for the ghoul. She said it was in the floo, but it’s not.”

He jumped up, and Harry had to reel to one side because apparently Malfoy’s chosen path was _through_ him. He started dumping Luna’s pillows out of the cases without a word.

“Malfoy, look,” Harry said, lifting two defensive hands. His fingers were oddly beautiful right now, so he hoped he wasn’t too tipsy to say this. “Ron was telling the truth down there. He was the only one saying those cruel things at my house. _And_ he was trying to apologize for it.”

“Potter, I don’t need you trying to appease me. And I certainly don’t need your pity.”

“I didn’t come here with pity. I came because I like you.” 

Malfoy sniffed in a self-deprecating way. He moved on to feeling between the folds of the mattress. 

Harry took his silence as a good sign (and, actually, he didn’t care because Malfoy was super hot hands-deep in a mattress), and pushed on. “I mean, I’m rather peeved at the Ministry, the way they’re handling your family's affairs. I have half a mind to write a letter to Shacklebolt. But pity you? We’ve all reaped the rewards of our choices, Malfoy. Some rewards are less ideal than others. It’s just the way it is, and you’re doing a fantastic job conquering yours.”

Malfoy rubbed his chin, but still wouldn’t look at Harry. “You think?”

“Yes. I’m rather...impressed by you, if anything.”

His eyes flicked up, the grey as piercing as a blade. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed. He couldn’t think of how to make it clearer, so he just smiled like a fool.

Malfoy’s eyes fell away, running along the floorboards and then up to where the wall met the ceiling, though Harry was certain a cow-sized ghoul could not hide in plain sight like that. 

“Fuck this,” he sighed, taking out his wand. “ _Detactado_!”

The room went black. Malfoy’s form went stark, luminescent white. Harry lifted his hands, finding he looked the same, and as he waved his flesh hummed ethereally through the blackness.

“Whoa.”

“Life-form tracker. I’m not supposed to do this.” Malfoy spun in a careful circle. “I’m supposed to lure ghouls willingly with truffles and shit. Fucking Lockhart. Bleeding heart, ignoramus, talentless hack. Well, there’s no ghoul, but I can see some black widows nesting. I imagine Lovegood’ll want to keep them to eat the Fairy Toads, or some rot. She’s off her rocker. _Finite_!”

“Took you this long to realize?”

Malfoy hummed in what Harry thought was amusement, and began straightening out the pillows.

“So, are we all right?” Harry asked, walking up behind him.

“Sure, we’re all right.” He jumped when Harry touched the small of his back. He gently pushed the hand away. “But we can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because-–” Malfoy touched his hair, unconsciously ruffling it. “I’m a fucking handyman, that’s why. Not to mention a former Death Eater. The Mark may have faded, but the stigma has not. You don’t need to get caught up with someone like me. You’re-–” He gestured vaguely to Harry’s scar.

“Who’s pitying now?” He reached out again, and when Malfoy did not shy away, he stroked the stubble already coming in from his morning shave. “I like you. Just you. Fuck all that other stuff.”

After a long moment, Malfoy sighed. “I like you, too. But do you know you’re intoxicated?” He relaxed into Harry’s touch, just the same, drawing him close by the hips. “Merlin, when I saw you standing on Lovegood’s doorstep with that bottle of cheap liqueur...even from afar your arse was phenomenal.”

“You saw me? You liked my arse?”

“I did. Very round, the right ratio of fat and muscle. Jiggles a little when you smack it.”

Harry let his voice go flat. “You could tell all that from far away?” 

“Maybe I embellished in my head. You’ve been in my head rather a lot.“ He murmured this against Harry’s mouth, and when Harry caught the scent of him, he couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled in Malfoy by the cheeks and kissed him.

Malfoy’s hands dipped into Harry’s back pockets, taking two fistfuls of his arse. Harry smiled. Their teeth clicked, which made him want to laugh, but he couldn’t laugh without looking even sillier and more tipsy, so he melted into the embrace, letting Malfoy knead his backside and pull their hips flush, and Merlin if those weren’t warm, large, lovely hands back there. One finger moved down the center of Harry’s trousers, pressing into the hem between the pockets, and then it curled in on itself and knuckled Harry firmly against the arsehole. Harry shuddered, cried out, and pulled slowly out of the kiss.

“Where was this arse at Hogwarts?” Malfoy was saying heavily. “Maybe if you’d had it then I would have been dogging your steps for other reasons.”

“Maybe I’ve put on a weight since then. I didn’t have Kreacher making me sandwiches night and day at Hogwarts. He makes really good sandwiches.”

“Stop talking about sandwiches.”

They kissed again. Harry walked him against the bureau, clinking Luna’s perfume bottles and making a picture frame fall flat as he finally slipped his fingers under the rolled cotton of Malfoy’s shirt to feel his shoulders, finally wrapped his hands around the outside of Malfoy’s arms, and felt the muscles twitch with the exertion of lifting Harry onto his toes, and finally ran his hands up and over the high cheekbones he’d admired from afar just a month ago. This part alone blew Harry’s fantasies away. 

“Aha!” Malfoy exclaimed, breaking free of the kiss. His wand was out before Harry opened his eyes. There was a flash. Harry caught glimpse of a startled, fat female ghoul before she vanished. “Did I get it?” 

“I don’t know,” Harry said, easing down the wand. “But I don’t think Luna and Rolf want you killing anything in their house.”

“I was going to tell them she’d gone on holiday.”

Harry kissed his curling lip. “This is one area where I think Lockhart may be right. I’m sure you’ll think of a nice way to get her out eventually. You’ll just have to keep coming back to Grimmauld Place.”

Malfoy looked down at him, heavy-lidded, clear-eyed and probing like all those times before. He nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah, sure.”

And, in his state, Harry wanted to make extra certain, “Yeah? So you’ll keep making house calls?”

“I’ll make an exception for you. Just this once. In fact, I’m running a special on plumbing. I’ll clean your pipes for free.” He tapped Harry’s arse suggestively.

“I’m not too drunk to get the subtext,” he said, fisting Malfoy’s shirt. “And I think I’d like that. Come on. Let’s get downstairs before I take my servicing in Luna’s bed.”

Malfoy pushed Harry’s hand down his stomach, over his belt buckle, and between his legs. “I’ve got a pretty long gutter snake that could do the trick,” he said, smirking.

“You know, I think you were right before. I shouldn’t be dating a handyman.”

“We’ll just call that Slytherin humor.” 

Malfoy kissed him one last time. Harry led him downstairs, intent to show him a good time tonight even if it meant inflicting him on Ron. Actually, especially if it meant inflicting him on Ron.

The party was an apparent success, as Neville and Ginny were singing karaoke with the candles as backup, Dean was finishing a sculpture of Luna with the bean paste, Luna herself was dancing with Rolf with only their noses and fingertips touching, and Percy and the Ravenclaws were still arguing about the scent of the cheese hanging in the air (Malfoy put it to a stop, barking, “ _Emmentaler!_ ”). When the Weird Sisters came on full blast, Neville and Ginny began belting like maniacs. Harry pulled Malfoy onto the dance floor, threw his arms around Malfoy’s shoulders, and insisted on dancing slow despite the lively soundtrack.

“Strange when you’re drunk,” Malfoy murmured, but didn’t protest.

“I’m not drunk anymore.” Harry felt Ron and Hermione dancing beside them. He looked, caught Ron’s wink, and felt warm and at peace. “Hey,” he exclaimed, turning to Malfoy. “If you saw me watching you on Luna’s roof, and you liked me then, why’d you make me work so hard for your attention all month?”

A smile spread onto Malfoy’s face. “I haven’t gone all good, Potter.” He lowered his mouth to Harry’s ear. “Just wait till tonight. You’ll see.”

Harry was as smitten as day one.

***

A floorboard creaked upstairs. A ghoul poked out her long, sleepy head. She looked left and right, brought up splinters and dust as she wiggled out of the floor and into the chimney, and fell fast asleep in the floo.

the end

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/60299.html).


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